


softly

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Series: gossamer vessels [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bad Touch Chancellor, Chronic Pain, Consent, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Fluff, Guilt, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nightmares, POV Third Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Sexual Situations, Tags May Update, Trauma Recovery, World of Ruin, an AU where noct doesn't get eaten by a rock, and lives through the darkness with everyone else, coerced sex, interconnected vignettes, kind of a character study??, past promdyn, sap, spoonie noct, ventfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-10-18 18:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17586026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: The figure in front of him lets go of his wrist. Prompto’s arm swings back down to his side, numb. It feels like the whole limb is trying to wake up from something.The figure licks his lips. “Prom, you’re not breathing.”





	1. softly

The blinds are drawn, an attempt at shielding them from the darkness and miasma and bad memories lingering outside.

They’re in the kitchen – there’s a radio on, perched on the edge of the counter by the front door of their shitty little Lestallum apartment. New broadcasts were one of the things that fell by the wayside once the darkness hit, but somehow, they’ve managed to tune into an Altissian station. Scratchy, static-riddled songs from when Regis was a kid lilt through the speakers and into the kitchen, warm and bright.

Noctis is at the stove, phone lit up in one hand with a recipe Ignis sent him via instant message. He stares at the list of cooking instructions like they’re the dense paragraphs from their high school textbooks, trying his hardest to decipher them for the test later. In his other hand rests a wooden spoon, and in front of him, a frying pan.

Prompto looks on him, smiling softly, before returning his attention to their tiny, half-full fridge. They don’t have much food – no one does, and exceptions can’t be made, even for the King. In the crisper sits what they’ve been granted from the hydroponic greenhouses set up by the power plant, a mish-mash of leafy things that they have no hope of identifying without Ignis. Above that, on a white plastic shelf, is a bowl of mismatched mushrooms, collected from Prompto’s hunts. Eggs from the local chickatrice coop are already up on the countertop, sitting between the two of them.

Prompto tries not to compare their dinner tonight to the contents of the fridge from Noct’s old apartment. By all accounts, this is a feast – at least, in comparison to half-rotten tripe and canned beans.

He looks back over to Noctis, to that adorable, baffled expression.

This is what he has. This is what they have, now.

It should be enough.

“Uh, do you want to use everything in here, or save some for next date night?”

Noctis looks over from his phone – he blinks for a second, eyes trying to readjust to the real world.

“Recipe calls for way more than what we have. Do you really think Specs’ll let us mooch off of him next week?”

Prompto sighs, shakes his head, and opens the crisper to pull out a half-portion of their greens.

He doesn’t notice, initially, but a bit of water slips out of the brown wrapping around the stems. It falls on the tile just ahead, and when Prompto stands from his squat to hand the vegetables over to Noct, he slips.

The world blurs. He lets out a yelp, falling back, expecting the crack of his head against the kitchen floor any moment – until something catches him.

A hand. Around his wrist.

Prompto’s vision stays blurry. Their home of the past two years swirls, sways, seems as if it’s melting before his eyes. His fuzzy eyeline drifts to the windows – to the void in between the slats of the blinds, and how utterly familiar it feels.

It’s funny how a touch can bring it all back.

His skin prickles with the remembrance of hands, more than just the one clasped around his wrist, seeking out the curves of his body. A creeping descends upon him, just as real as it was from two years past – those leathery, gloved fingers stroking his wrists, sliding up to his shoulders, slinking down to his hips.

Prompto shudders, and he can’t bring himself to move.

“- okay?” a voice cuts in, soft and concerned.

He can’t speak. The sound of his own voice – it might just make the outcome worse. If he stays quiet, if he stays _still_ , perhaps _that daemon_ will get bored with him, might move on to other methods of torture–

“Prompto.” Someone shakes his wrist. The prickling advances. “Prom.”

Prompto swivels his head back from the darkness that’s creeping through the blinds, finding the figure in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he responds. It comes out stilted. Like something one of his brothers might say.

The figure in front of him lets go of his wrist. Prompto’s arm swings back down to his side, numb. It feels like the whole limb is trying to wake up from something.

The figure licks his lips. “Prom, you’re not breathing.”

Of course he isn’t. Breathing won’t help him now. Nothing will. All he can do is wait for it to be over, wait for the touches to die down and the daemon to back off, to be left alone in his prison of cold metal and flesh that aches.

But this – this place isn’t gray corridors, isn’t metal tools and bloodstains. He can’t focus on much, but he at least knows that.

Prompto doesn’t know where he is.

The figure in front of him heaves a breath, like he’s upset. Prompto flinches.

“When…we were in high school,” the figure begins, “freshman year, I got hit with this killer fucking cold. Remember that?” He gives a self-deprecating chuckle. “I was laid up for a week and a half. Missed school for most of it. Specs tried to set up a damn quarantine around the apartment, but you didn’t have any of it. You pushed past him every time so we could sit in my bed and go over history notes together.”

Prompto blinks. The words are hard to make out through the haze, through the Night and the daemon wrapping around him.

“You were gonna fail,” he thinks he hears himself say.

The man in front of him snorts. “Damn right I was.”

The conversation lapses into pained silence. Music stutters in Prompto’s ears.

Time-scarred hands brush along his thighs.

“I can _feel_ him—“

“Do you want to be touched?” Noctis counters.

For a brief moment, Prompto looks up and _sees_ his boyfriend, like a single ray of sunlight passing through the storm. He nods.

Warmth envelops Prompto’s hands, ungloved for the evening. Hands that have so deliberately kept up their skincare routine feel his own – blisters from the hot metal of his guns, callouses from training and climbing and staying alive during the godsdamn apocalypse. Fingers slide through the spaces between his, yielding and gentle. In the back of his head, Prompto knows he could pull away at any time.

The next bastion of warmth finds the small of his back. Prompto initially jerks and hisses at the touch, but the grounding weight of it scares away his prickling, the phantoms of the daemon that held him down and took what he wanted.

Noctis – and he can correctly identify him now, _Noctis_ , the King and the vessel and the fisherman and a million other beautiful, contradictory things – steps closer, taking care not to rub himself against Prompto but to guard, to _protect_ , from the memories trying to drag him down.

“Can I kiss you?” Noctis asks, and that – that is one thing that Ardyn _never_ did.

Prompto finds it within himself to take a deep breath.

“Please,” he whispers.

Noctis leans in, for the briefest of moments, and places his lips on Prompto’s. It’s not earth-shattering the way he’s heard it in fairy tales; sparks don’t fly like they do in the movies. The kiss is nothing but a peck – a reminder that there is so much more beyond force and violation and terror.

The light set in the kitchen ceiling suffuses the scene with yellow. It makes the apartment look ugly, and brings out the grout in the counter’s tiles. When not fighting for their lives, or pouring over ancient tomes for a way out of the Prophecy, or clinging to each other in the dead of night, they really do try their best to clean the damn thing. This might be the best it’s ever looked.

Noctis leans back, uncurling from his protective embrace. There are worry lines set into his forehead, and his mouth twists in that way it does when he has to talk about _emotions_.

“Are you back?” he asks.

Prompto thinks he can still hear cruel, triumphant laughter – but it’s fading fast, replaced with the ministrations of the singer on the radio. His barcode still tingles, but it’s not as noticeable with Noct’s hand in his.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

All of the tension leaks out of Noctis, and he deflates like a balloon. “Thank the Gods.”

He kisses Prompto on the forehead, another soft peck.

“You still wanna try cooking, tonight?” he laughs quietly, as if in disbelief at the state of their lives.

Prompto looks for where the greens landed – about a foot away, discarded where the carpeting of their tiny dining room meets the tile of the kitchen.

“I’m still game if you want to.” He manages to crack a smile.

Noctis looks at him, looks _through_ him, evaluating one more time. He gives Prompto’s hand a final squeeze, and walks back to the frying pan at the stove. Thank the gods they never turned that burner on.

Prompto turns around to retrieve the forgotten veggies. When he reaches them, he notices for the first time tonight how they feel under his fingertips, bumpy and imperfect but fresh and _real_ , colored the richest green he’s ever seen.

“Hey,” he turns and says, to Noct. “Love you.”

Noctis looks towards him – pride and sorrow and the closest Prompto’s seen to joy in years, all folded into a fond, close-lipped smile.

“Love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tactile hallucinations are a _fucking bitch._
> 
>  
> 
> [had this song in mind while writing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KQr0WvI0Z2c)


	2. these hands not fit for holding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. His face is pained. 
> 
> “Kiss me?”
> 
> Prompto thinks about it – and nods excitedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3556XIaP3i4)
> 
> This is not a happy one, folks. Note the updated tags. (also whoops this became a longfic?)

Prompto’s waiting on the couch when Noctis comes home.

Noct’s been out for just over a week now, him and Ignis having embarked to comb back through the Royal Tombs in lower Cleigne and central Duscae. Prompto’s been passing the time by taking whatever hunts he can, helping out in Lestallum’s greenhouses, or taking pictures for Vyv – anything to take his mind off life and Noct’s absence.

It’s a late night; any sane person would be asleep at this hour, though honestly, everyone’s sleep schedules have been fucked since the darkness hit. An instant message came in earlier saying _almost home_ – and he’s been waiting since then, about three hours. Prom’s almost nodding off when the front door clicks open.

And Noct – Noct’s a mess.

He’s got a bag slung over one shoulder, most likely filled with whatever artifacts they couldn’t trust the Armiger with, or maybe first aid supplies. On his right arm is an old bandage, brick-red in some places and almost black in others. On top of that he’s limping, badly.

Prompto abandons his phone on the couch, calling Noct’s name and walking over. Noctis melts into Prom’s arms, burying his filthy face in Prompto’s neck and taking what weight he can off his bad leg. He shrugs the satchel off, and the importance of it be damned, it ends up left there by the corner of the front door and the kitchen for the rest of the night.

“Hey, welcome back, buddy,” Prom says into his hair. He kisses there briefly too; “What can I do for you right now?”

“Shower,” Noctis mumbles, then winces. “God, my fucking leg – “

“You got it, bud. We’re gonna head back there now, ok?”

Noctis nods, sweat shining on his temple.

They walk together to the back of the apartment, Noct’s uninjured arm slung around Prompto’s shoulder, hobbling all the way. When they make it to the bathroom Prompto leaves Noct on the toilet lid, and turns on the shower to the temperature he likes before leaving so he can undress. While Noct’s cleaning himself, Prompto busies himself in other ways – procures a knee brace from the closet, not Regis’s ornamental one, but something more practical. He fishes a couple ice packs out of the freezer, wrapping them in hole-ridden washcloths and them back to the bedroom.

He’s just fluffing the pillows on the bed, propping three up on Noct’s side for him to rest against when the bathroom door opens and amber light spills out into the room. The King himself leans against the doorframe.

Prompto smiles, though Noct isn’t looking at him. Even exhausted and in pain and dripping wet, Noctis still makes his stomach do flips.

“How was that?” Prompto asks, and can’t keep the relief and the almost-excitement out of his voice.

“Better,” Noct says, and his voice is hoarse. Maybe he should have made tea, too. “Gods, I can’t believe a week is enough to make me miss showers.”

Prompto laughs in his sheepish little way. He walks over to the door, ready to help Noctis across the room when he notices Noctis looking at him, really taking him in for the first time since he got back.

“What, got something on my face?” he jokes.

Noct swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. His face is pained.

“Kiss me?”

Prompto thinks about it – and nods excitedly.

He makes the first move, taking the hand Noct isn’t using to hold his towel up, and threads his fingers through as he presses their lips together. It doesn’t take long at all for the chaste kiss to become heated – Noct’s always touch-starved beyond belief after these trips, and Prompto pours all his leftover fear for him and the accompanying relief when he came back safe into the action. He presses Noctis to the door frame, squeezing his hand tight, _too_ tight, and they both absolutely devour each other.

During their second break for air Noct pants out, “Bed?” and Prompto’s too manic and adrenaline-drunk to refuse. It’s a good thing that the apartment’s so tiny – only three steps of Noctis hanging off of him and they’ve collapsed on the bedspread together. Prompto has barely half a mind to shove away all the supplies he procured earlier so they have enough room to do whatever’s in store.

They kiss, and kiss, and _kiss_ -

Prompto’s landed on top of Noct, straddling his thigh. He moves his mouth down from Noct’s, trailing the sloppiest of open-mouth kisses to his chin and down his neck and then to his collarbone. He’s feeling _good_ , he’s feeling _triumphant_ , his mind is as far away as possible from all the things that haunt him on a daily basis.

When he’s done with the kisses Prompto sits up, moving his legs and straddling Noct’s waist now – and that’s when the balance shifts.

The endorphin rush abruptly stops when he feels Noct’s hard cock poking through his towel, brushing against his still-clothed ass. His grip on Noct’s shoulder and his hand loosen significantly, and Prompto could swear, he _does_ swear, that he can feel a cold wind rushing through their windowless bedroom. Noct’s panting heavily, struggling to regain his breath – he hasn’t even noticed how far Prompto’s travelled: a continent away, back to Zegnautus, back in Ardyn’s hands.

It’s only in moments like these that he notices, but through the years they've spent together in the endless Night, Noct’s jawline has become more pronounced. It’s too easy for Prompto’s brain to take that one factor and expand it outward, drawing his shoulders broader and turning his hair burgundy and his eyes golden.

The eyes of the man underneath him fall closed. Driven by instinct, he starts to grind his naked cock against the space between Prompto’s legs. Prompto’s vision blurs and he starts to whimper – _please, no, not again._

But he never had a choice back then; not a real one, anyway. It was give up his body or watch Noctis die, searching for him.

Prompto’s never gathered the courage to tell Noct about that part. He definitely doesn’t have the presence of mind to do it now.

The man keeps grinding, and when his hands settle on Prompto’s hips to pull him even closer he can’t control the cry of fear that escapes him. The movement itself abruptly stops, but Prompto’s still back there – he’s still on top of Ardyn, eyes blurring over as that horrible man pushes into him with not enough prep, the pain and the unwanted desire curling together deep in his gut.

“Prom,” someone says. “Prompto, fuck, _fuck!_ ”

Noctis lifts his hands off Prompto’s hips and Prompto takes the only opportunity he sees to shove away. He falls backwards off the bed and onto the room’s scratchy carpeting, scrambling against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto whimpers, lost and scared and curling in on himself, still feeling that chill wind howling through the room. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m _sorry_ , I’m so _so_ sorry – “

“Our favorite hangout spot as teenagers was an arcade called Gasoline Alley,” Noct starts, trying to keep the frantic tone out of his voice. “Dunno why they called it that, cause there wasn’t a gas station anywhere near it. You loved the shooting game there, the one with the zombies and the dinosaurs. Remember that? And as soon as we graduated, they turned the place into an ice cream shop. We tried to eat there once but it just wasn’t the same.”

There’s a reason Noctis delivers these monologues – the longer he goes on and the more in-depth he gets, the easier Prompto can latch onto it, pulling himself out of his own head. It’s hard to find the thread tonight - he can still feel his ass tingle, like Ardyn’s hands and genitals never really left – but the voice is familiar and the story rings true. It’s not something that Niflheim would ever have known about.

Prompto blinks. He’s shaking like he’s going to fall apart, and there are tear tracks down his face.

“Hey,” Noctis says from the bed, out of breath from the ramble and the fear. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“I’m back,” is what Prompto gets out, voice strangled and high. “I’m back.”

“Fuck, fucking gods, I’m so sorry, I thought that you – “

“Don’t, okay?” Prompto chuckles self-deprecatingly. “It was all my fault.”

“Prom,” Noct says softly, “are you talking about tonight, or before?”

Prompto swallows. He can’t respond to that, instead whining, “Noct-"

“It’s okay,” Noctis says, breathy and exhausted. “It’s okay.”

They both stay in their respective corners of the room for a few minutes, regaining reality. Prompto presses the pads of his fingers into his arm until the skin around it turns pure white, trying to focus on the sensation enough to stop from shaking any more.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

“Don’t,” Noctis echoes in the most loving way he can.

By the time Prompto’s back to standing, Noct’s already pulled the cast-off supplies over to him and started on tending to his leg. He’s pulling his pajamas out from the bedside drawer when he meets Prom’s eyes.

Dark blue – like the night sky, right after the sun sets. Nothing like gold.

Small a thing as it is, it’s reassuring.

“No touch tonight?” Noct asks, his tone penitent. Prompto rubs his arms, shaking his head.

“I think I’ll be okay. Upper body only, though?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” There’s a sigh of relief right afterwards. “Get the light?”

Prompto nods, and turns off the lamp on his side of the bed.

Climbing into bed, he feels scraped raw. Noct curls an arm around his torso and he flinches, getting a concerned stare from his boyfriend – he relaxes soon enough, though.

Noct sighs again.

“You’re safe here,” he says, the words floating away into the dark. “I promise. You’re safe, and I love you. He can’t hurt you here…”

Noctis nods off not long after Prompto, both of them slipping away into a thick, exhaustion-fueled sleep.


	3. somewhere else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no honor in what happened to him, no beauty. Even if it does mean that Prompto still gets to wake up next to the love of his life every morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [couldn’t get this hauntingly beautiful undertale cover out of my head after a scary night](https://materiacollective.bandcamp.com/track/its-raining-somewhere-else-2)

“Is chamomile okay?”

“Chamomile’s lovely, Prompto.”

Prompto has to stand on his tiptoes to reach the tea cupboard, above the stove in his and Noctis’s tiny kitchen. It’s a testament to how little they drink the stuff normally, seeing as their mugs, strainers, and precious reserves of honey are all kept up there too. He manages to reach it without a stepstool or Ignis’s help, though the latter does have his eyebrows raised in the way they are when he’s about to interject. Luckily, he doesn’t.

The supplies come down and Prom moves to fill the kettle in the grimy sink. Just across the way from the kitchen entrance, Ignis is laying out the contents of the satchel Noctis brought home several nights prior. His hands work meticulously, knowing exactly what each item is upon brushing his fingers against it, arranging the artifacts and bits of scrollwork in neat rows on the wood of the dining table. If Prompto closes his eyes, he can pretend that Ignis’s face is just as unmarred as it was when they started the road trip two years ago. He’s improved significantly in his ability to get around, as proven when he and Noct take their pilgrimages alone.

“When’s the next one?” Prompto asks, reminded.

“Hm? The next what?”

“Trip with Noct.”

“Ah.”

Ignis pulls back from his hunched position over the table, placing his hands on his hips and acting as if he can survey all his hard work thus far. “Well, provided we can piece together something from the spoils of the previous trip, I’d say a week, at the latest. Otherwise, we’ll be back to the drawing board.”

Prom nods, leaning back against the counter where he placed the mugs. He looks over at Ignis’s rows of ancient crap – none of it looks particularly promising. But he knows he’s not here with Ignis because he’s well-versed in Solean mythos, or even ancient Lucian rule. Mostly, he’s here for moral support, and to read any applicable ancient texts. It figures, too, that he should have _some_ idea of what could end up saving his King and lover.

The ever-present knot of anxiety in Prompto’s stomach tightens.

They have to find a way for Noct to get out of this. They _have_ to.

Prompto didn’t sacrifice what he did just for Noctis to give himself up to the Astrals at the end of days.

Steam blows against Prom’s arm, followed by a sharp whistling – the kettle. He blinks the cloud of dread away and turns, preparing the tea for him and Ignis. He gets a murmured _thank you_ when he brings both of their mugs to the dining table, and places them as far away from the bits of crumbling stone and paper as he can.

This is only the second time they’ve done something like this. The first time Noct and Ignis embarked to find clues on how to break the prophecy, they came back completely empty-handed. This repeated four more times, leaving the three of them all exhausted and frustrated as the Night wore on – until Prompto had the bright idea that the two should maybe take a break from the royal tombs and check out Costlemark Tower for any leads. It worked, and for the first time in nearly a year, the two of them had come home from their expeditions with their hands full of hope. Sitting presently on the dining room table is a combination of their spoils from that Costlemark trip, as well as the odds and ends they found on the latest royal tomb sweep.

“You ready?” Prom asks, settling down in a wooden chair, hot mug clasped tight in his hands.

Ignis curls a finger under his chin. He sweeps a hand to his left, searching for his own tea – and exhales smoothly when his fingers clasp around the lip.

“Ready.”

For the next hour, Prompto pours over Ignis’s limited – yet unimaginably dense – library from Insomnia. Iggy’d had the foresight to put a small sampling of history books and encyclopedias on an e-reader to bring with when the trip started, and the thing has saved all of their asses time and time again.

But today, they’re simply not finding _anything_ about the jewelry slipped off the statues of dead kings, or specific details of the ceremonial ways in which they were buried, or anything at all about how all the lore they’ve gathered on the life of the Oracle-King of Solheim relates to the present King of Light.

Prom’s getting their fifth cups of tea each when Ignis picks up the e-reader discarded on his side of the table, glares at it as best he can, and tosses it dangerously close to a hunk of ancient painted rock. The sight and the noise both make Prompto flinch; the knot of anxiety in his stomach worsens.

“We’re…doin’ that bad, huh?” he half-jokes.

Ignis tears his glasses off his face, moving to rub at his eyes with his free hand. Prompto watches the micro-changes to his expression as he searches for the right response.

“It’s no use whinging on about how unfair this situation is,” he says, slow and measured, “it’s simply that – “

And then Ignis rests his sunglasses on the table in front of him, frustration and dejection both etched into the scars on his face when he continues: “Astrals know I would do anything for Noct. Why in the hell are they making this so _difficult?_ ”

The knot in Prompto’s stomach freezes over.

It’s not a flashback, not at all – Prompto knows exactly where he is right now, standing on the cusp of his kitchen and carpeted dining room with two steaming mugs in his hand. But at the same time, he can’t stop his thoughts from swirling, spiraling, going back to that moment in the Keep when everything changed.

 _“I’m going to take you regardless,”_ Ardyn had whispered in his ear, coarse red hair scraping against his cheek. _“You can either play along and save your precious King, or fight me and let him_ die _before I get to fuck you.”_

Becoming a Crownsguard was one of the most important things that ever happened to Prompto, and he knew from the moment he started the training that it would mean making difficult choices and suffering honorably in the name of his charge. Somehow, this was the one thing that he had never once considered he might have to go through.

There’s no honor in what happened to him, no beauty. Even if it does mean that Prompto still gets to wake up next to the love of his life every morning.

 _I would do anything for him,_ Prompto’s mind whispers.

 _You need to tell all three of them what really happened,_ another part of him points out.

“Prompto?”

Dazedly, Prompto notices that Ignis’s frustrated expression has become one of concern. “Are you quite alright?”

Prom blinks rapidly, and resumes his previous action: setting Ignis’s refilled mug down in front of him.

“Yeah. Yeah, fine.”

Ignis doesn’t seem convinced, and, if he’s being honest, neither is Prompto himself. Ardyn’s heavy hand is still on his shoulder and his over-large body is pressed all against his own, pinning him to an impossibly cold metal wall.

 

*

 

“Home,” Noctis calls from the entryway.

Ignis left hours ago, though their dining room table is still a mess. Prompto hasn’t had the presence of mind to clean it up.

He sleepwalks from the bedroom to the front door. Noct holds his raiment-clothed arms open for a hug. Prom shudders away, unthinking.

“Okay,” Noctis sighs, putting his arms down. “One of those kinda days, huh?”

Prompto can’t dispute it.

 

*

 

The iciness lasts even through until the evening, when Prompto and Noctis are curled up on separate sides of the bed, still not touching.

 _“You’re going to love me when we’re through,”_ Ardyn taunts inside his head, and kisses his barcode _too_ tenderly.

The nauseating memories of his melodious voice are what carry Prompto off into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now I'm thinking 4/5/6 chapters for this fic, can't decide. Shouldn't outstay its welcome too long, though.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments. :)


	4. smoke and ash (interlude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So," Ardyn asks, and it's a stupid detail, but Prompto can still see every micro change in his facial expression as he says the words, "what will it be?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [song](https://circelink.bandcamp.com/track/dolittle-dragon)
> 
> _And I say if love is really blind you never get to choose  
>  But I say you really can't combine a lover's leash and a pretty noose_

_Prompto's so close._

_The facility he's found himself in is an endless maze of corridors and sparking bodies. There hasn't been much to suggest he's in the right place, save for a rusting sign he saw half a day ago that stated_ GRALEA CITY LIMITS _in blocky, uniform Niff. There’s also the paper trail that leads him further and further into the center of the labyrinth, chasing after the Crystal - and hopefully, Noct._

_In all likeliness, this is a trap. There's no way at this point that he isn't being blatantly strung along, led by the hand like he has been all these last few days. Ardyn's not exactly subtle._

_At the same time Prompto knows that he's completely alone, crawling through metal hallways and claustrophobia-inducing air ducts with naught but a dwindling supply of stolen firearms. It's risky, but if there's some way that he can keep finding his way through this place, dupe Ardyn enough into thinking that he's falling for the trap - maybe he can learn of the others' location, and cross paths with them before things go completely to shit._

_The one blessing that Prompto hasn't stopped counting since he got here is the precious silence of the Keep. Sure, the lack of human noise is pretty spooky and adds to the delightful atmosphere of ‘oh_  gods something horrible happened in these labs,'  _but at least it makes threats easier to spot._

 _At least he doesn't have to listen to that_ voice _any longer, smooth and sickly and bouncing off the hard walls, swallowing him like it did in the production facility._

_It makes hearing Noct's voice, when he catches it, all the sweeter._

_Sounds of his battle cries and protests come from behind an upcoming stretch of wall, though it looks no different from all the other stretches of gray wall Prompto's come across so far. He moves into a crouch, slowing down and stepping steadily in the direction he heard the voice in. One hand sits, tensed, on his knee. The other grasps the handle of his gun in its holster._

_Looking closely, vigilance thrumming through his being, Prompto_ does _notice something different about this stretch of wall. There are parallel grooves set into it, maybe two yards across from each other. The cracks in the metal allow for an effective enough peephole - through them, he can see bright light in another room._

_It's not a wall. It's a door of some kind; sliding, most likely._

_And on the other side, clear as day, he can hear Noct shouting his name._

_He huffs a sigh of relief, and mutters, "I'm here, buddy," before standing again, searching in the dim lighting of the hallway for a scanner. Swiping his barcode across the door's sensor is a frantic affair - he doesn't want Noct, when he sees him, to deal with the weight of his origins just yet._

_The wall-door takes its time sliding open and against all precautions Prompto bounds in, hand still tight on his Lion Heart. He steels himself to see his best friend for the first time since the train, only to find -_

_A room of bright monitors, completely devoid of life._

_Prompto blinks. He'd laugh if the sound wouldn't taste so bitter._

_He advances, pulling his gun completely out of its holster. He doesn't bother calling Noct's name - he needs to be completely aware of the entire environment right now._

_And there, he hears it again: a scratchy variation on Noct's voice, either hoarse from yelling or grainy, as if pulled through some -_

_Prompto whirls around and finds on a nearby terminal a single computer monitor lit up. When he approaches, Noct's voice gets louder._

_It's only a security camera recording._

_Fuck._

_He sees Noct as a tiny pale-and-black figure on the screen, running from an enormous daemon, something in the Iron Giant family. The edges of the feed are staticky, and Prompto can't make out much about the room he’s slipping through except it's just as gray as the rest of this place. The Giant's flaming blade swings across the screen, a pixelated blur of orange - and the recording cuts out, the rest of the nearby monitors flickering back to dull assortments of scrolling code._

_"Doesn't it just leave you on the edge of your seat?"_

_Prompto twitches, heart pounding painfully, whirling around on his heels._

_"I truly thought it was one of the better selections," Ardyn comments nonchalantly, picking something from one of his nails._

_Prompto doesn't hesitate. He whips his gun forward, pointing and shooting. The bullet never hits home – it disappears through a fog of inky black before shattering a nearby computer._

_Ardyn appears at his immediate left, laughing with genuine delight, and pushes him with such force that he stumbles and falls against the nearby wall. He bites down on a cry of pain as the impact reminds him just how many bruises decorate the side of his body._

_"We really don't need any of that now, do we?" Ardyn reaches forward and yanks his gun away, as if Prompto's grip is nothing. He twirls it around on his finger before disappearing it,_ like Noctis can _, commenting, "Really, such manners. Guns aren't toys, do you know that? Besides, you haven't even listened to my offer yet."_

_Prompto knows he won't be able to escape this space between Ardyn's body and the wall any time soon. He struggles to his feet anyway, attempting desperately to gain some control over the situation._

_"There's nothing you could offer me," he grinds out, keeping his voice as monotone as possible._

_"Oh, I beg to differ." Ardyn leans in briefly, grinning, before sweeping an arm back towards the terminal where the video with Noct played. "You see, he’s had many moments such as the one you just witnessed these last few days." He moves down to play with his ring finger. "Some not even of my doing."_

_Prompto's stomach sinks all the way to his boots. If Noct's desperate enough to be using the Ring, then what has Ardyn been putting him through?_

_Ardyn must hear him breathe through his teeth. He captures his chin to tilt it up before Prompto can stare at the floor._

_"You know," he starts, and his voice slips dangerously low, into territory Prompto would describe as 'tender' if he didn't know what the man was capable of, "I, for one, am well aware of how...deeply you care for him. And he, you - you've no doubt heard him crying your name in all corners of the Keep, hm?"_

_Prompto hasn't, but gods, were it true..._

_"I can...remove some Noct's suffering. Drastically reduce the chances of his impalement on a daemon's blade, though, understandably, there's nothing I can do about the Ring..."_

_One of Ardyn's hands comes to rest near Prompto's shoulder, fingers reaching up and playing with the unwashed blonde fringe escaping his winter hat._

_"For a price, that is."_

_Prompto would recoil if he could, and attempts to, curling as far away from his tormentor as possible. His mouth goes dry. He thinks Ardyn can't possibly serious until a second hand finds its way to his hip._

_"So," Ardyn asks, and it's a stupid detail, but Prompto can still see every micro change in his facial expression as he says the words, "what will it be?"_

_Guilt rears up something ugly within Prompto. If he refuses the ‘offer’ he gains his freedom, but risks Noct more pain. If he says yes..._

_He really,_ really _doesn't want to say yes. He doesn't even want to think about it._

_Prompto summons all the moisture left in his mouth, and spits a wet glob up onto Ardyn's nose._

_"Fuck you."_

_And Ardyn - the sick bastard - actually laughs._

_"Poor wording, on both of our parts."_

_The fingers in his hair claw up and tighten, bending Prompto's head down towards his shoulder at a terrible angle. He does cry out briefly at this, but in the end it's more because he's suddenly, firmly sandwiched in between the unforgiving metal wall and the suffocating heat of Ardyn's body, pressing along his front._

_"Allow me to rephrase." Ardyn breathes harshly, leaning ever closer. "I'm going to take you regardless. You can either play along and save your precious King, or fight me and let him_ die _before I get to fuck you.”_

_*_

The truth is, Prompto's not some wide-eyed innocent.

He lost his virginity long before this incident, having enjoyed himself in myriad consensual ways. He's never really been great at emotional intimacy - low self-esteem and a shitty childhood will do that to you - but exploration, one-night stands, discovering his own latent bisexuality at the end of high school – that, he could handle.

The only person he was ever able to capture that emotional connection with was Noctis, a man that Prompto knew, no matter what he did, would be out of his grasp sexually. He accepted that truth a long time ago.

What he knew he could give Noct was his loyalty. A tribute to the Crown, an oath to keep him safe. A shoulder to cry on when things went south, which ended up being pretty much all the time after they left the walls of Insomnia together.

The great irony to the situation is that, in giving himself away to the enemy, in gaining scars both physical and emotional that never truly faded, Prompto ended up cementing his love for Noctis anyway - and in addition, discovered it was mutual.

The price of Prompto’s dream relationship - both of theirs, really - was found in sacrificing his loyalty to the Kingdom.

_*_

_"I'll do it," he squeaks. "I'll...I'll do whatever you want. Just please, don’t kill him."_

_Ardyn lifts his lips from the side of Prompto's face. He smiles against his jaw._

_"You have my word."_


	5. voidlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nice to not be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I have wanted to use this song as a fic title ever since I first heard it.](https://homestuck.bandcamp.com/track/voidlight)

Prompto doesn't remember much about the sex itself. Flashbacks and fleeting intrusives are the only ways he's ever managed to grasp onto the meat of what happened - not that he's ever really wanted to.

If Prompto had things his way, those memories and all the ones adjacent would be sealed off and placed somewhere no one could reach them or remember their existence. He'd be able to go whole days without thinking about the worst moment in his entire life. He'd be able to  _live_  again. 

But as it stands, what he remembers is this:

\- metal bunks, like the ones he and Noctis slept on in the days following his rescue -

\- strong hands and a stronger voice, commanding, but Prompto can't make out any of  _his_  words without returning to the moment in real-time -

\- the back of his head, his wrists, his thighs, tingling, tingling,  _tingling_ -

\- realizing too late, after the starbursts have faded and his lower half has gone cold, how utterly  _good_  it felt -

\- it's all a dream, a nightmare he can't wake up from -

\- and then, nothing. There's a fuzzy, almost blank space before he wakes up in the cross, clothes changed and bruises aching.

Even that is too much.

 

 

*

 

 

Nightmares again. If anything, Prompto's used to them by now - at least he doesn't thrash as much anymore.

Noct's still sleeping, thank the gods. Prompto peels himself out of sweat-soaked sheets, and sits up to rub at his forehead. Everything's still pounding: his heart, his mind, his lungs. He casts his eyes around the room to confirm where he is.

The bedroom is dark, but his sight adjusts quickly. There's the bed he lies in, for one, double sized but not quite big enough for two fully grown men. On the better of the bad days, it works out. Otherwise, Prompto's taken quite a liking to the couch in their living room.

The bathroom door, right across from them, glows slightly - looks like one of them forgot to turn out the light inside before heading to bed. Prompto's grateful though, because the yellow light is comforting, illuminating more of his safe space.

Clothes are strewn about the floor. A forgotten ice pack melts away by his knee. The alarm clock next to him shows 05:08 in angry red lines.

This is their home. It's tiny, and it's slapdash, and it reminds him more of the house he grew up in than anything royalty could afford - but it's  _theirs_.

It isn't enough to stop Prompto's stomach from twisting itself into knots _._

Taking care not to jostle the bed too much, he rustles off the mattress. It seems as soon as his feet land on the carpet he finds himself standing in the middle of the living room, shivering and ill-prepared for the world outside the bedroom.

Prompto stares at the front door, vision blurred from sleep and dissociation. He's still half in the dream, half in reality. He genuinely can't decide which is better: the freedom of the waking world, or the familiar terror of the nightmare.

At least in Ardyn's embrace, things make sense. There, he's just an MT, a  _thing_  to be used, an object of no consequence. In that moment, it's easy to think of no one in the whole of Eos being hurt but him. But here, in the reality where he distantly knows he's standing, there's so much  _wrong_  that he can't control.

Ignis' blindness. Noct's prophesied death. Gladio's grief, and the Night that swallows everything whole _._  None of them deserve any of this, and gods, none of it is easy.

Prompto Argentum, with his boundless heart and unfailing empathy, would rather be with Ardyn a million times over again than to have his loved ones suffer like this.

"Hey."

The softness of the greeting catches his attention. Prompto glances behind him and catches Noct, leaning heavily on the bedroom doorframe. His hair - growing longer by the day - is spiky and knotted in the back from sleep, and his eyes are barely open.

"Noct. Did I wake you?"

Noct shakes his head. "Don't worry about it."

That never actually helps to hear.

He shuffles closer, limping slightly, something in his arms. "Are you okay?" he follows up.

Prompto doesn't waste any time thinking about it, shaking his head immediately. By the time Noctis gets close enough, he can vaguely spot what the lump in his arms is - an extra blanket, from the bed.

"Mind if I touch you?"

Prompto shakes his head again. Noctis, very deliberately, unfolds the blanket and swings it around Prom's shivering shoulders. He hadn't realized how cold he was until being wrapped in the throw.

"Couch?" Prompto suggests, and Noct nods sleepily. Astrals, it's a miracle he's even up. It didn't use to be this easy to wake him. Sharply, anger flares up within Prompto - Noct's shitty sleep is just another thing to thank Ardyn and his Night for.

The couch is tiny, and it sags under his weight. There's a spot near his knee where the leather's cracking. Prompto only barely resists the urge to pick at it.

Noct gets comfortable in his own corner of the couch, settling in while he asks, "Bad dreams?"

"Yeah." Prom keeps his voice remarkably controlled. "It's nothin' new."

"I know." Noct's hand flops out of his lap and onto the fraction of couch separating them. It's an offering, and Prom's not ready to take it.

There's silence, for several minutes. Neither of them bothered to turn any lights on once they got out here, so they sit in the uncomfortable black, close enough to touch but with some insurmountable barrier between them all the same.

"D'you remember," Noctis starts, "being a teenager, and sleeping over at my place?"

Prompto hums in the affirmative.

"Yeah. When we first started I was pretty scared you were gonna judge me for my nightmares."

Prom scoffs, and looks over. "Who, me? Pfft."

Noct shrugs. "S'what I thought. But you were always," a yawn, "really good at dealing with 'em."

The silence returns for a moment before Prompto cautiously says, "Thanks. You're not so bad yourself."

"Thanks," Noct says quietly, then shifts in his place to face him better.

They're both dancing around the topic.

"Wasn't that bad," Prompto offers. "At least I couldn't see him this time."

"How's that?"

"He was...like, all black and shadowy. Like a daemon."

Noctis makes an  _ugh_  noise. It's a little childish, and Prompto would laugh if Noct didn't continue:

"I should have been there. Back then. I shouldn't have let him separate all of us."

Prompto pulls the blanket around his shoulders tighter, trying to ignore his trembling hands. He looks away, and his unstyled hair falls over his eyes.

"There wasn't much you could do."

"Fucker's immortal. Yeah."

He shakes his head. "Not just that. He - "

Prom stops. The nightmare, previously fading, comes back with such a brief but sharp clarity that he winces.

_"Oh, what a magnificent specimen you turned out to be..."_

_"You're doing so well, my dear. So obedient."_

_"Tell me you love my cock, hm?"_

Noct waits for him as he rides out the voice and the reminders of unwanted touch prickling across his skin. He continues to leave his hand between them like a peace offering.

Prompto flounders, recovering. "He - it wasn't...aw, fuck, Noct."

"What's wrong?" Noct sits up a little.

"You'd - you're - you're gonna hate me, if I tell you."

"Yeah? Try me." He levels his gaze at Prompto, whose eyes are darting all over the place. "I already know it's not your fault."

"Yeah, well, you're not gonna think that anymore." Prompto continues before he loses his nerve: "I chose to do it."

He looks up just in time to see Noct's eyes widen, and immediately regrets it.

"What? No, you told me you didn't want it."

"I didn't," Prom chokes out, and isn't surprised when he feels tears land on his blanket covered hands. "I didn't. But he was going to kill you. I had to."

Noctis hisses in that way he does when he's upset, and withdraws into himself.

"I'm sorry - "

"Don't you fucking dare," Noct grits out. "Don't you dare apologize about this."

Prompto doesn't say anything.

"You think you deserved this? You think just because the sick fuck made you do this, that it's your fault somehow? Well I've got news for you - it's not."

"You can't just - "

"Well I am. Alright? Royal decree: this is nowhere near your fault."

Prompto would be lying if he said it wasn't relieving to hear. At the same time, it feels like the confession tore his insides to shreds on its way out.

"He made me - do things. Say...things. I didn't want to. But I did it. For you. To keep you safe."

"Can I hug you?" Noct asks.

Prom swallows; " _Please_."

Noct's on him in an instant, nearly warping across the divide. His arms are thrown around Prom's blanketed shoulders, and his dark hair tickles Prompto's neck as he buries his face in the crook of it. There's warmth everywhere, but it doesn't scare Prom - this warmth is solid, comforting, and unmistakably safe.

"It's gonna be okay," he whispers, like if he hopes too loudly the Astrals will hear. "It's gonna be okay. We're gonna make him pay and then come back in one piece, okay? Together."

"Together," Prompto repeats. And then again, less shaky: "Together."

And little by little, as he soaks up the love on offer to him in this desperate space, the morning's nightmare fades like darkness at sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's my self-indulgent little slice of life thing. The ending's probably a little too open-ended but whatever, writing's hard and trauma's harder. Prompto and Noctis are going to survive, and they are going to be alright.
> 
> Thank you for reading this. It means a lot.
> 
> [Twitter: @darlathecyborg](https://twitter.com/darlathecyborg)


End file.
